


Des Mots D'Amour

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: Darren is sort of multilingual and Chris is sort of, always, amazed.





	Des Mots D'Amour

The first time Chris hears Darren speak another language, they’re sitting on the deckchairs outside the makeup trailer, making the most of the clear November skies while they can.

 

Darren’s quoting something by Dante, the words rolling off his tongue effortlessly. Chris’ mind goes something from the effect of,  _okay, why is that so hot_ , to  _of course he speaks Italian, the fucking asshole._

 

“ _La Vita Nuova_ ,” Darren tells him earnestly, leaning over the arm of his deckchair. “‘ _Here begins a new life._ ’”

 

“So do you often go around memorising medieval Italian poetry?” Chris asks, and he hopes to God his face isn’t as red as it feels.

 

Darren laughs self-effacingly, the way Chris has noticed he always does. “Nah, I mean I only know like the first stanza. I used to listen to it to improve my pronunciation. That section just sort of stuck.”

 

Chris thumbs through the condensation running down his can of Diet Coke, and brings it to his lips. “Why?”

 

He must be dreaming, because Darren’s eyes darken a little. “Well, it’s romantic, but not in a sunshine and daisies kinda way, you know? More of in a- ‘you’ve changed me for the better’ kind of way.”

 

Chris nods, and pretends he’s not falling in love with every word. “Yeah, I get that. Sort of- cataclysmic, but in a good way. Almost derailing.”

 

“Derailing,” Darren repeats, and they hold each other’s gaze until Chris has to look away.

 

***

 

When Chris gets out of the shower, Darren’s on his bed, strumming out a song on one of his guitars. Chris vaguely recognises it as french; the lilting endings, the liaisons, Darren’s impeccable ‘r’s.

 

He looks up as Chris approaches. “ _Il me dit des mots d'amour, des mots de tous les jours_ ,” Darren sings, “ _et ça me fait quelque chose_.”

 

The bed dips underneath them as Chris sits down, and the tune tapers off.

 

“Don’t stop,” he says quietly.

 

So Darren doesn’t, letting the rest of the words flow until he reaches the improvisation at the end. The melody is familiar and lighthearted and inexplicably comforting.

 

“It’s from La vie en rose,” Darren says, idly plucking out the tune. “You came in at,  _he tells me words of love, words of everyday, and it does something to me._ ”

 

“That’s very pretty.”

 

“French does sound very lovely.” Darren’s eyes twinkle. “Especially when you speak it.”

 

Chris laughs. “My french is abysmal,  _mon amour_.”

 

“You remembered that.”

 

“Only because I have someone to use it on.”

 

Darren smiles, and pushes back a strand of Chris’ shower-damp hair. “ _C’est vrai_.”

 

He leans in to give him a soft, chaste kiss, which turns decidedly less chaste when Chris chases his lips, seeking out the slick slide of lips and tongues and held breaths. The warmth in Chris’ chest that had bloomed since he’d heard the song has slowly been migrating downwards, and it’s really not his fault. Darren speaking in other languages  _does_  something to him, and French is well,  _French_.

 

Chris lays a hand on Darren’s inner thigh, nudging the guitar out of the way, and pushes him onto his back. They pull apart, flushed and breathless, and Darren laughs.

 

“Who knew my random french conjugation would eventually get me laid?”

 

Chris slaps gently at Darren’s chest. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a talented little asshole.”

 

“Hey, who are you calling little- mff!”

 

***

 

Chris is half asleep when Darren first says it, dancing on the weightless precipice of  _there_  and _not really there_ , so he almost misses it.

 

“ _Mahal kita_.”

 

Chris blinks his eyes open to find Darren looking right back at him, half of his face squished into the pillow. “Hmm?” he hums, pulling his fists closer to his chest and clenching and unclenching them like a cat.

 

“ _Mahal kita_ ,” Darren repeats, voice quiet.

 

“Is that Cebuano?”

 

“It’s the same in Tagalog, but yeah.”

 

Chris stretches his legs out a little, allowing Darren to throw a calf over his own, and pull him close. He feels himself falling back under, cocooned in Darren’s warmth and the heavy weight of his limbs.

 

“It means,  _I love you_.”

 

Chris’ eyes fly open.

 

He sees Darren’s face, sees his expressive eyes and his smile lines, forking out and mapping every ounce of happiness the man has ever felt. Darren embodies his joy in his smile, holds his heart in his eyes, and right now they’re staring at Chris, impossibly full and maybe just a little bit scared.

 

Chris uncurls his fingers to trace Darren’s cheek, to pull him close, to kiss his lips.

 

“I love you too,” he whispers.

 

Darren grins softly and presses his lips to Chris’ forehead, before reaching behind him to turn off the bedside lamp.

 

“Sleep, love,” he says, and Chris does.

 

 _“In that book which is my memory,_  
_On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,_  
_Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’"_

_― Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova_


End file.
